


a little piece of light

by angelcult



Category: SK8 the Infinity (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nursery Rhyme References, Parent/Child Incest, Sad Ending, Therapy, ventfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29734317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelcult/pseuds/angelcult
Summary: Langa is a little piece of the moonlight (really, he is), so why is he getting snuffed out?
Relationships: Hasegawa Langa/Hasegawa Oliver
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	a little piece of light

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a vent piece so if any of the above tags trigger you or squick you out, I don’t suggest reading, thank you.

Slick thighs layered with a thin sheen of sweat. Pale skin that bruises too easily, tracks of blood down the insides and backs of his thighs. White hair splashed over the pillow like spilled moonlight, the only noises leaving the boy’s mouth are little grunts and gasps of pain.

He can see his bedroom door through his hair and knows that just beyond that his mother is asleep. Maybe if he screamed, she’d hear, she’d come running but that’s just a fantasy— his mother would never choose her son over her husband.

No matter if she knew or not and Langa made sure she would _never_ know.

“Langa,” Oliver sighed softly, leaning over the boy’s shoulder, hiding his view of the door away with his face. He doesn’t really look all that much like Langa. His eyes were bright and his hair was light but not as much as Langa’s hair and eyes.

Langa was a piece of the moon, his mother had told him that for as long as he could remember. His father was determined to dirty that, however, to bury that little light in the dirt.

The man’s eyes were cold, and when he kissed Langa his mouth was too. Everything about him was as cold as the slopes he snowboarded on, he was ice, he was the type of ice that burned upon touching and he just _loved_ to burn Langa.

“Such a sweet boy, staying quiet for me.”

It’s because if Langa kept himself far enough inside of his head, none of this would have ever happened, not really. It would just be a dark spot on his memory, a little piece of darkness he couldn’t scrub away.

That’s all.

* * *

His therapist wants him to cry. She thinks that his father’s death is affecting him in all the wrong ways but she doesn’t _know._ She doesn’t.

Just like his mother doesn’t and the teachers at school don’t, they won’t understand how he feels because he doesn’t even understand.

Does he miss Oliver? Is he relieved? Maybe he’s some fucked up mix of both because his father _fucked him up_ and no one knows.

He doesn’t say anything for an hour, and he can tell that it frustrates his therapist a great deal, knowing that she just couldn’t get him to speak or cry or whatever else she wants him to do.

His mom says he’ll get a better therapist in Japan, even though Langa is sure that there’s cultural norms and customs that he won’t understand, but he's mostly sure that it’s just expensive.

The funeral already cost so much, they sold the house and lots of their things just after, because his mom doesn’t want to go into their father’s bank account which is really _hers_ now but Langa doesn’t why they shouldn’t just spend his money.

He’s the one who died.

He’s the one who hit a rock that was buried in the snow and smashed his head.

Literally.

Langa had gotten a glimpse on the body, they’d been on the slope together. He was missing a piece of his skull and his eye, the snow had been red with blood and brains. 

He remembers that he almost laughed instead of screamed. 

But it makes his mom feel guilty so he doesn’t ever mention it, he just slips money into her purse when he can. 

  
  


Japan isn’t like Canada, it’s clean and neat, but the district Langa’s in is also clean and neat. He’s sure there’s somewhere dirty and riddled with the filth of the streets.

Part of him feels like he’d belong with them. 

He drifts.

* * *

His therapist is a beautiful man from New York with green eyes and blond hair and he doesn’t smile when he greets Langa. He looks him up and down and holds his eye and Langa decides that he likes him.

He lets Langa sit on the floor instead of a couch, lets him kick his shoes off and explore the space of his office. 

They both don’t put their backs to the door, they both don’t like being touched, the man’s wearing a wedding ring and he always rests it against his lips when he’s thinking. 

Langa likes the man because he’s just as broken as he is. 

* * *

_Broken sobs filled the room, the smell of salt and iron filled the air, these were Langa’s favourite spread of sheets, they were soft and had little bunny patterns along the edges._

_When he’d bought them, he’d been thinking of that nursery rhyme._

See the little bunnies sleeping till it’s nearly noon

Shall we go and wake them with a merry tune?

They’re so still, are they ill?

_Pleading cries for him to stop, or slow down, for him to leave because he’s his_ son _and father’s don’t hurt their sons, they don’t, they don’t._

_Except that his father does._

Wake up little bunnies!

Hop little bunnies, hop, hop, hop.

Hop little bunnies, hop, hop, hop.

_Oliver was pushing his head down into his pillow. It was sky blue to match his ever lightening hair, but soon his mother would be replacing it with a white pillow because he was getting paler and paler everyday._

_His father likes to pull on it and go on and on about how wet he is, about how well he takes it, saying “I have videos of this, of you.” as if to tease and mock._

See the little bunnies sleeping till it’s nearly noon

Shall we go and wake them with a merry tune?

They’re so still, are they ill?

Wake up little bunnies!

_At the tender age of fifteen, Langa wants this to all be a bad, bad dream._

* * *

His therapist lets him speak, he doesn’t say anything, just listens to him, but Langa can tell that he’s angry. He knows he’s not angry at him, he’s angry at Oliver, but he’s trying to stay in a place of professionalism even though he probably wants to scream or hit something.

Langa felt like screaming and hitting things a lot nowadays.

“Langa,” He waited until they were looking at each other to speak. “You know that everything you say stays here between us, no one will ever hear about it, and I only write down the things I need to help you, _but,_ ” He looks pained for a moment, a little more tired and older before he continues speaking.

“If there’s.. CSEM — Child Sexual Exploitation Materials — of you floating around somewhere-“

Langa shrugged and looked away.

“We packed up all of Oliver’s things and sold the house so, I don’t really know where it’s at, if it ever existed at all.”

“Do you care?”

Langa frowns at the question and looks down at his lap. He’s curled up in the chair this session, and he’s glad he chose there to sit, it was nice and safe.

“Not really. Not now. I think it’s hard to consider that he actually-he actually recorded it. I never looked, I was too scared to.”

“Scared of Oliver finding out?”

“Scared that he was telling the truth.”

His therapist, Chris, just nods a little.

“I understand.” And Langa knows that he isn’t just saying it, that he really does.

* * *

_Oliver kisses him and tells him to throw his sheets away, tells him not to let his mother find out._

_When he throws them away, he’s only briefly intersected by her and she pauses, her expression full of worry._

_“Honey, what’s wrong, are you alright? Are your sheets dirty? I can wash them.”_

_Dirty doesn’t even begin to cover the bloodstains he’d tried for hours to scrub out, but was unsuccessful._

_“I just,” He remembers the nursery rhyme, he remembers the coldness of his father’s eyes and mouth._

_“I just think I’m too old for them now.”_


End file.
